The Diplomat's Son
by LeftRightLeftRightLeft42
Summary: He was the diplomat's son, wealthy and cultured. She was the girl who sold flowers on the street, poor and lonely. They never crossed paths, but one day their worlds collide. Can 2 people from different backgrounds make it together? AH.


**A/N: This was a new idea I had, so I decided to try it out. I'm going with the T rating for language, I guess. I don't think its too bad, with language you should fine **

**Chapter 1: Fiore di Ragazza**

**Edward**

I was late. Fucking late. That means I'm in deep shit.

I was late for another one of Mother and Father Cullen's overpriced party affairs at the "house," but once I showed up it tended to be a risqué affair. These types of shindigs at my place were so stuffy, and full of rich people whose names were either Sir George or Lady Winifred or something equally as stupid and inane. Seriously, Lady Winifred? Trust me; I've met the Lady Winifred of my parent's parties.

An annoying old hag who always called me Edgar, not Edward. My name is Edward you old biddy, not Edgar. For my sanity get it right, please.

I didn't like these parties, they were uncalled for and you'd think the cast of Golden Girls arrived at my house to have cocktails and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Most of the old bats were my mama's friends. Lord knows, they all can drink as well as they talk. The rest of the lot belonged to my father's posse, his diplomatic friends and pals of the politics world.

Badass, I tell you, bad ass. They were the shit, they had power. And money, what a surprise.

Yet, they both insisted I attend these parties because I was the son of the Italian diplomat. My family was the shit; apparently because father Cullen was a diplomat and he had money coming out of his ears. Plus even the food sucked at these parties, they always served these muffin things that were seriously just ugly cupcakes. No one likes that whole wheat shit, or whatever was in those muffins. If we have money, buy something that tastes good, none of that fancy junk.

I'm the diplomat's son, or kid or whatever people call me these days. Every one pinned me as the "wild child" of the family, I guess I was. I wasn't following daddy Cullen in his diplomatic steps. I wasn't crazy either, or into that whole bohemian style. I was just as every bit as refined as my family was, just in a different way. As a matter of fact I dressed just as well everyone in my family did. My sister Alice made sure, what with her owning a boutique, and a bakery in downtown Chicago. Alice or Ace as I liked to call her, always kept me on my toes.

I wasn't stupid or a bum either, my family and I used to live in Italy because my father was the diplomat. We lived in Italy for a good portion of my childhood so I naturally picked up the language. So I spoke fluent Italian, the whole family did including Ace. I missed Italy; it was an amazingly beautiful place to be. I almost wished I still lived there, but we moved back here years ago.

I was an artist, sort of. I painted, and spent my time doing mindless fuckery while off from medical school. Of course mom and pop Cullen didn't like that so much, my father still hoped I could become a stuffy diplomat. No thanks. I liked photography; they also thought that was stupid. Which doesn't make sense, my mom likes art. She dragged me to an art museum the other day. I was so bored. Not my kind of art. I had enough of still life, and fucked up looking sculptures of people and what not. Which meant my mom would not be pleased when I arrived at the house covered in paint splattered clothes, I was 24 for chrissakes I could do whatever I want.

I was driving home from the art studio, in my Ferrari F430. The Ferrari was a "gift" from my parents for my 21st birthday. Who gets a Ferrari for their birthday? I guess I apparently I do. Cars were the only thing I indulged in from the family's wealth that seeping from the bank accounts. I pushed the pedal down harder; I was going to be in serious trouble with my mom, Esme. The art studio was quite a long fucking way from the my house, and the entire city of Chicago and all the old bats have been bound to have arrived already.

_All the old wenches must already be drunk, _I thought sourly. Too make matters worse, my mother always invited the daughters of her friends, they all just happened to be a load of bimbos. I think they were attracted to my bank accounts, more than anything. The wenches were out to hunt to night, and I was not available, sorry ladies. I drove down the familiar street, and entered the land of the rich people.

The Land of the Rich people was the area where I lived. Big snoods, these people were.

I made a left turn into the area, and through our gate. Yes, we have a gated house with god knows how many acres of land around. We even had horse on this forsaken piece of land, a pool house, and a bunch of other shit rich people have on their land. I pulled into our driveway and made a left to head down the road that lead to the Cullen family garage, best place on the land. I quickly parked the Ferrari outside, and hopped out making a run for the house in my dirty paint clothes.

I looked up at the house, and it was like the Bat signal was going off. Bright lights. Time to face the bimbos and the old biddies and their hoity toity ways. I sneaked in through the back kitchen door, where surely most of the wait staff was hanging out. I slipped in hoping to go unnoticed up to my room, so I could get the paint out of my hair.

"Edward, dove sei stato? Il tuo ritardo! vai ripulire!" Ahh, shit my mother just had to be in the kitchen. We frequently spoke Italian in my house so it was no surprise my mother was using it now since she was angry with me for being late to meet the golden girls.

"Ci dispiace, mamma. Ero nello studio dell'arte e ha ottenuto tardi." I apologized.

"Sbrigati, figlio." She replied while heading out of the kitchen. I proceeded to head through the enormous kitchen and up the grand staircase. My room was on the third floor, so I had to climb mountains to get there. I opened my bedroom door, and sprinted to the bathroom to take a quick shower to get the paint off. After I stepped out of the shower, I walked over to the bed and found an Armani suit and tie waiting for me.

Grazie again, Ace.

I rumpled up my fucking messed up hair, and threw the suit on and tied my shoes and flew out the door down the grand stair case. Party time! And the shitfest begins now. After awhile, a lot of people start to get plastered. Go figure. I looked around the room, and sure enough the golden girls had arrived with the bimbos in tail. A waiter walked by carrying a tray, and I swiped a strawberry Daiquiri. I might as well drink a little bit, to make the time go by faster. I walked around the room, being fake and greeting people while nursing the Daiquiri. I hadn't seen Ace anywhere yet, no doubt off somewhere. I got bored talking to the old biddies, so I plopped myself down in a chair with another strawberry daiquiri. I was on my third daiquiri , when one of the fucking Barbie bimbos sauntered over to me like catwoman or something.

"Hi, do I know you?" she whispered in my ear; please get away you nasty bimbo. I was only mildly plastered, but I closed my eyes hoping should would take the hint and leave me the hell alone.

I didn't want to pull a Batman joke out yet to scare her off, she problem doesn't even know who fucking batman is. I heard nothing for awhile, until I realized that I had gone and sat down in an empty room and this girl was sitting on me kissing my goddamn neck.

"Get off of me." I hissed, pushing her off of me. She fell to the floor, whining something about me letting her take off my pants. What? No thanks stay far far away from me. I finished off the last of my daiquiri and stormed out the room. I had no idea what I was doing, but I threw off my suit coat and ran through where the party was going on. People were shouting at me but I didn't listen. I ran right out the front door, leaving it open. I ran all the way back to the garage, hopped into my Ferrari and sped out the gates.

**Bella**

This shit was fun. I'm the flower girl. So I sell flowers. Cool, huh?

I was pushing my fuck heavy flower cart down the street. That's right; I have a flower cart to sell fucking flowers. It's my job, it takes lots of skill to sell flowers all day long while pushing a stupid cart filled with them. I hate flowers. Story of my life, flowers and more damn flowers. They ruled my life, I depended on flowers to pay for my rent and food. No wonder I never got laid. Sometimes they didn't follow through. I mean who wants to buy flowers on the street when you can go to some fancy, hot-shot flower joint to get the custom made or ordered. My flower cart didn't carry tiger lilies or orchids, none of that expensive shit. I relied on Emmett, my friend and boss to get me the fuckawesome pretty flowers that people wanted, nowadays.

I just entered the land of the rich people; maybe they wanted my stupid wilted flowers. Someone had to, right? No, maybe not. This place was full of big ass gated monster houses that would make my apartment look like a cardboard box. I passed gate after gate, each one with some fancy million dollar car behind it. I despised all these people; they were so snooty and uptight.

I bet they didn't even know what a fucking Wal-Mart or Target was. Or even something awesome like microwave food or cheap soda and wine. Those were currently the only things in my refrigerator right now, actually. It was about midday, and I was making my rounds in Chicago's Tinsel town when I passed by probably the biggest godamn house I had ever seen. The place had tons of shiny cars parked outside, must be some fancy shit going down there. I looked at the gate, and it was the same as always with 2 giant gold plated C's on the gate doors. Who the hell has gold plated letters on their door? I sighed, and pushed my cart back down the way I came and stopped at the street corner to cross over to the other side. I pushed the button to cross, the light flashed green and I started slowly pushing my cart down off the curb. When I was about half way across the street, the car is no longer in my hands, and I jolt back to see a shiny, red car colliding with my damn flower cart.

I looked up at the owner of the shiny, expensive looking, billion freaking dollar car. It was a guy, and he was getting out of his stupid car.

"Are you okay?" he asked frantically looking over at me. He looked odd for a moment.

"I'm fine, but my fucking flower cart sure as hell isn't." I screeched.

"You're what?"

"My flower cart, billionaire boy."

"Why do you have a flower cart?" he questioned.

"I sell flowers, pal. It's my job." I replied, assessing the damaged to my cart and the lunch I was carrying on it.

"Yes, and are you going to help me fix it or not? Or are you going to sue me because my goddamn cart chipped the paint on your billion dollar car?" I demanded.

"Sure, I'll help you fix it. And no I'm not going to sue you." He replied smoothly with a smile, damn what a nice smile.

He walked over to my dented cart, and set it up right while gathering flowers. I hoped that the flowers were still okay to sell or else I was screwed with this month's rent. I needed the money.

"So what's your name?" he questioned, helping me pick up some flowers in the middles of the road.

"Bella Flower Girl freaking Swan." I replied.

"Your middle name is flower girl freaking?" he chuckled.

"No you idiot, I'm Bella Swan the Flower girl." I said, grabbing a few wilted daisies.

"So you're the flower girl?" he questioned. Yup, that's me.

"Yes, I'm the flower girl. I asked, irked that he was asking all the questions.

"Can I call you flower?" he laughed, quietly. I wondered briefly if he was drunk.

"No. shut up. And who the hell are you?" I asked brusquely. Flower, pshh he must be drunk.

"I'm Edward Cullen and apparently billionaire boy." He answered simply; I need to activate the filter on the swearing he's being polite while I swear like a sailor. Get a freaking grip.

"You're the billionaire boy. With the really expensive car, what is that? A Lamborghini or something?" I wondered. Some fancy shit like that.

Then he laughed at me, he fucking laughed at me.

"It's a Ferrari F430." He answered through chuckles, oh so that's how it was.

"I'm sorry I don't speak billionaire car language." I snapped, grabbing the last of the flowers and the remains of my ham sandwich and bag of skittles.

My poor lunch. I assessed the damage on my decrepit flower cart.

"Hey, how are you going to fix my flower cart and my lunch?" I questioned him, he was getting my a new lunch and skittles or else there would be major problems. I wanted a soda too.

"Uh, I'm not sure what to do about your cart, sorry. I can get you a new lunch if you want though." He offered, tugging at the tie around his neck.

"Fine, but I want a sandwich, a new bag of skittles and a soda." I demanded. He damaged my freaking work cart after all.

"Come, on Flower. Get in the car." He gestured to his stupid Ferrari. He must be drunk he was offering to let me set in his car, and he didn't even know me.

"Are you drunk, billionaire boy? Is life that hard for you?" I mused aloud, walking to the passenger side of the shiny, red car. What a shame, I was going to get dirt on his car floor..boo ho.

"I only had a couple daiquiris at the party." He mumbled, counting on his fingers.

**Edward**

I don't think she wants to get into my car. Maybe I am drunk, maybe just a little bit tipsy. I had no idea how I ended up here, but I met this strange girl. I forgot how many daiquiris' I had had at the party. She sells flowers, I was confused. Who has a job doing that? With a freaking cart too. She said so herself, that she was the flower girl. She was a mystery, with the mouth of a sailor. Impressive.

So I called her Flower, and she called me Billionaire Boy.

Translations (loosely)

Fiore di Ragazza= Flower Girl

dove sei stato? Il tuo ritardo! = Where have you been? Your late!

Ci dispiace, mamma. Ero nello studio dell'arte e ha ottenuto tardi= Sorry, mom. I was at the art studio and it got late.

Sbrigati, figlio= Hurry, son

Grazie= Thanks

**Reviews are loved and appreciated! **


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